Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Season of the Buffalo

I know this may come as a surprise to you. Certainly it did to our
granddaughter.

Maybe I should explain . . .

We were driving to Banff, Alberta. It is time for our annual week at
the Banff Rocky Mountain Resort. The place that has been our summer home for
nearly 30 years.

This year, it is our eldest granddaughter’s turn to spend the week with
Grandma and Grandpa, a privilege that is hotly contested among several of the
grandchildren. Okay . . . well . . . among two of them.

The drive was perfect. Slightly cloudy but not raining or stormy. So
the sun wasn’t a problem, but neither were the road surfaces.

Now, I should explain that our route takes us invariably through farm
country. Some of the richest in Alberta. Long stretches of rolling hills heavy
with nearly-ripe grains. Swaths of luxurious green, newly-mown hay, drying in
the late summer sun until it’s ready for baling.

Fields of cocoons.

Cocoons?

And finally, we’re to the point of our story . . .

In many of these fields, there are dozens—even hundreds—of buffalo
cocoons. Great cylindrical shapes of uniform size, some covered in plastic or
mesh, and all simply sitting there in the fields, waiting to hatch.

Yeah, my granddaughter didn’t believe her grandfather, either.

And he described the day of hatching to her so well. When the
long-dormant cocoons burst apart and fully-grown buffalo appear.

“It is quite a sight. The great,
shaggy beasts, hungry from their developmental slumber move off in a herd,
grazing, Running in the sun. Happy to be alive . . .”

I’m quoting her grandfather, of course.

Our 14-year-old granddaughter stared at him, skeptically. Obviously she
wasn’t about to swallow her grandfather’s ‘this-is-how-things-happen’ story whole
like the rest of her siblings and cousins.

Skepticism turned vocal. “Grampa, that’s not right. That isn’t how
buffalo are made!”

Her grandfather looked at her in the rear-view mirror. “It totally is! The mother buffalo weaves her cocoons out of grasses, then tenderly inserts a seed into each one. You should have paid attention in Biology class.”

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My novel, Carving Angels

My Second Novel: Kris Kringle's Magic

About the Mom

Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .